The First Traditon: The Masquerade [1]
by XPainX
Summary: The first installment of the End of the World! Justicars and Archons of every Camarilla clan realize that the humans want to start a third World war! Can a group of rebels stop the madness, even with a Malkavian on their side? Find out!


  
  
Games White Wolf  
Censor: R  
  
  
The First Tradition:  
The Masquerade  
  
  
From: The Diary of Sylvia Raynard,  
  
Day: Saturday, July 22, 2000  
  
  
. . . We stood now on the edge of the cliff . . . [overlooking] the forest of trees. Six thousand Gangrel, Malkavian, and Brujah all in once place, no fighting, no words of any kind exchanged. We all watched . . . the humans forming in the broad clearing . . . [They] spoke of the need for power, of the . . . [next] World War . . . of the end of humanity . . . Our blood boiled at the mentioning of the Gehenna . . .  
. . . No one said anything. I expected my own of kin [the Malkavians] to speak up first, even if just to taunt [and say] "I told you so" . . . [but] it was the Brujah justicar Seadman Dawes . . . [who] broke first. Dawes . . . ordered a war against mankind; a fight not only for our existence but our "Food Supply" . . . [Dawes] had full support from all Brujah and [many] of the Gangrel and Malkavian. [I] . . . told Dawes I wouldn't fight until it was known by the Inner Circle. The entire [Inner Circle].  
. . . A fight broke out [soon there after] . . . And below the humans conspired, above the moonlight watched on . . .   
  
  
Chapter One  
- - -  
"Why is it when we talk to God it is praying,  
But when God talks to us, we are schizophrenic?"  
- - -  
Friday, September 1, 2000, 1:45 AM  
Abandoned UofD Campus, Room 113,  
Newark Delaware  
  
The large room which housed many of the Inner Circle surely seemed as if it was to bend and break from the overwhelming influences inside. Side by side the most well known of each Camarilla clan sat, taunt, expressionless faces turned towards the speaker. No one dared to look away from Madam Prescott unless for a damn good reason; no one ignored the fiery Venture justicar and lived to tell the tale. Or didn't live, for that matter.  
"Furthermore," she continued, her head snapping violently towards Seadman Dawes, "the laws are the laws, even to the Anarchists. If the rules are not followed, chaos erupts! We need the order and protection of the Masquerade to push back this war, not to join it!"  
"Then, Madam Prescott, perhaps we shall convert to the Sabbat. At least they have made and effort to control the Kine radicalists!"  
Gasps of shock came from some, while others nodded in deft approval. Dawes, however, waited silently for a retort, his anger rising and boiling in his blood.  
"I must confer, Justicar Dawes. Why would the Sabbat take in a large amount of the enemy? Heaven knows what they might do to you if you darest ask for pardon and expectance."  
"Who said anything about expectance?" He growled, taping his archon Desmond Brown on the shoulder, as if by cue. "As long as we offer enough about the weaknesses of the Camarilla, we will surely be granted far more than damn expectance!" Throwing aside his chair – and grinning as it smashed against the wall – Seadman Dawes stomped out of the room, breaking the hinges on the door as he passed.  
Desmond stood, eyes narrowed towards the Venture justicar, fangs bared in a compromising grin. "Dun think ya'll cen stop 'em, Missus Pris! Da Brujah'll 'gree 'n then ya'll be shit outta luck!" Turning to the Gangrel justicar Roselyn Banks, and her archon Michael Swift, Desmond smiled. "If ya'll 'er smart, ya'll do good and pack up too. Da time of reconin's commin': ya'll might wanna make sure ya'll on da right side."  
With that she left, the assembly quiet for a moment. Madam Prescott looked more hurt than surprised; it was going to prove difficult. It wasn't done yet, she noticed as Roselyn and Michael stood, all eyes on them.  
"I agree with Mr. Dawes and his archon. We stay here only to keep together an ancient pact, which means nothing to us today. We are our own persons and we shall fight out own battles when we wish to fight them."  
"I second that opinion."  
All eyes turned knowingly to the Malkavian archon Sylvia Raynard, then glanced away quickly.  
"The Gehenna will come without the aid of the Sabbat, nor will it hinder when the Camarilla stand guard. We shall fight against the coming death, with the laws of the Masquerade on out side, but with or without the consent of this council." Coal black eyes equipped with hourglass, ice blue pupils turned to Michael and Roselyn. "Don't you agree Justicar Banks? Archon Swift?"  
Roselyn nodded quickly, refusing to look in the Malkavian's eyes at all cost. No one ever did, despite Michael who only smiled.  
"I thought as much. Excuse me now, Madam Prescott, I have a future engagement with Justicar Dawes and the dice-throwing Lady, Fate. Perhaps you two will follow me?" Again she looked to the Gangrel leaders. Without another word she proceeded out the door, giggling maniacly at some unspoken joke. At her heels both Gangrel crept, ears turned on the chaotic screams and hollars errupting from the room behind them.  
"You shouldn't have been so mean back there, Sylvia. You will only suffice in being done away with. You're becoming one of Bitch Prescott's Wild Cards."  
"No, Michael, I am only being deranged. Not one of those self-absorbed nines can see what I see." Saddened eyes glanced his way and this time the archon looked away.  
"Even so, Archon Raynard, isn't it a bit too much? They already disapprove of you. You don't need them hating you." Roselyn watched as both archons joined hands, a spark of disappointment seething in her mind.  
"It does not matter, Justicar Banks. From this moment forth the Camarilla is no more."  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter Two  
- - -  
"Madness. It is the cause of many problems,  
And the infinite answer to them all."  
- - -  
  
Wednesday, September 6, 2000, 11:26 PM  
Lums Pond State Park  
Glasgow, Delaware  
  
Michael Swift rose stiffly from his hiding place in the old, abandoned Garou den, an inappropriate sniff of the stale air taken in. Across the den's left wall, claw marks and streaks of fresh and dry blood make the perfect décor. Bones littered the floor under his feet along with freshly spilt gore. He'd need to straighten up a bit tonight. He had overslept again and was sure Sylvia would show up quite soon. He had told her eleven-thirty, but he refused to keep a watch himself so he could estimate the time remaining.  
It wasn't as if Sylvia minded the remains of his last kill – she loved to have sex while feeling the still warm gore press against them – but she would rather they fed together. It brought around some interesting times.  
He grinned and howled slightly, stretching northward, letting long dead muscles creak, and long pained bones crack lovingly at their joints. So they were both kindred. It didn't mean that because they didn't have the same reaction to sex as humans did, they couldn't perform it. It was a psychological thing or something like that.  
With still creaking feet he quickly shoved the remains of his last victim aside. The poor picnicker had found him resting during the day. Poor kid. It wasn't too refreshing for Michael either; the kid, thinking he was dead pulled Michael out of the den, only for the damnable high-noon sun to burn Michael's flesh, and of course, wake him up. And no vampire likes to wake up to the sun burning every inch of his uncovered skin. He slowly glanced at his pinked arms. Thank god he was only outside for a few moments; he ended up not getting burnt.  
It was amazing, but not impossible.  
"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"  
Snapping from his memories, Michael glanced from his arms into the frigid gaze of Sylvia, sudden shock taking a hold of the depths of his soul. He stopped suddenly and held himself ridged, keeping the shakes at bay.  
"What is wrong?" She looked at him questioningly, fingers dancing across his jaw-line, her emotionless eyes glancing away from his own.  
Smiling, he turned her face back towards his own, this time ready for the shock of her glance. It wasn't the look of her spooky eyes; it was the fact that many times it felt as if you're very soul were pulled into those icy hourglasses.  
"Eh, the usual," he lied, horribly too. "Tired, hungry…"  
"Mmhmm." She leaned over and kissed his mouth, gentle hands returned to his cheek, caressing the skin with pallid, chilled fingertips. She moved away swiftly, dodging behind him, glancing shortly at the remains of his morning snack. "Awh. Why didn't you wait for me?"  
Laughing slightly, Michael pulled aside dark blonde, chin length hair, only to reveal pointed, warped ears, like those of the Garou. "Frenzy."  
They both exchanged a glance as both laughed well into the night, giggles still present as the wolves howled to the stark red moon and as clothing was shed, cold bodies eternally struggling for the warmth of life.  
  
  
Chapter Three  
- - -  
"If we could just find out who's in charge,  
We could kill him."  
- - -  
Wednesday, September 6, 2000, 11:48 PM  
Abandoned UofD campus, room 120  
Newark, Delaware  
  
Huddled over her slightly distraught and messy desk, Madam Prescott had to force a well-needed sigh from centuries-old lungs. It wasn't as if she was a novice at the games of the Camarilla, but she obviously had been thwarted. Currently, the remaining clans evident in the Camarilla consisted of… the Venture. Everyone else had walked out. Poof. That was it.  
The Nosferatu had slung out soon after Archon Raynard, Justicar Banks and Archon Swift, much to everyone's approval and relief. Even without the need to breathe, you could smell a Nosferatu out of a pile of horse dung. It was a miracle they upheld the Masquerade with a stench like that. The Nosferatu justicar Kalina Fertitane and her archon Jaclyn Sephrothe had threatened the immediate disbanding of the Camarilla.  
"If you won't stand with us, Madam Prescott, you will eternally stand alone."  
Those words, spoken by Archon Sephrothe, still danced in Madam Prescott's mind. She still felt the tension in the room, seconds before chaos erupted. Of course, the Tremere put up an argument, calling Madam a "self-absorbed, unholy bitch who will soon run a legacy consisting only of herself", which didn't sit well with the Venture justicar at all. Not that the biased truth would please any political power, but to the fiery justicar it was a sheet of pure ice. Justicar Elizabeth Ja'Cun of the Tremere Mother House in Venice exclaimed that a high price of hell would be paid out in full to the Venture. Of course, her archons Maybel Nift and Karl Majors agreed undoubtingly and left some very deep arcane curses on her head before leaving.  
That had solely left Madam Prescott and her three archons and the Toreador justicar Simon Bontefucho and his archon, Zoë Rodregues, who felt little pity for Madam Prescott.  
"So sorry, love, but I must go with the majority on this one." He had bowed shortly to her and flashed a picturesque smile. "Be seeing you around, no doubt. May our paths cross again on lighter terms." He left Archon Rodregues with the Venture. They had made social small talk and then she followed the rest, eternally gone to the boundaries of the Camarilla. Oh, a few would stay, she knew, but that was about it. No one cared about a few stray kindred. The whole of the matter was more effective than half, or less.  
In the past six days, she had gotten little information on the topic at hand, mostly rumors of a budding sect, named coyly by the toreador as Lamia, the Latin word for vampire.  
Madam Prescott sighed gently and pushed away from the desk, scattering papers across the already littered floor, giving away her faults of lack of organization. Why she was chosen as a justicar was beyond her. She made a horrible Venture. Gentle digits of her western appendage rubbed at undead and still somehow tired eyes of dull emerald, the hue muted by the centuries spent worrying over something that took the threat of a few mortals, the wrath of a rebel, and an age-old, skin deep and furthermore idiotic pact, the rules passed down by each generation, always honored but never understood. No one besides the Venture and a handful of strays would uphold the honors of the Camarilla or reap its rewards. Not that any of them really cared, but it made the Venture justicar feel very good about herself when she came up with something the others would be missing out on.  
Spinning once languidly in her chair she glanced at the clock gleaming on the wall. "Twelve o'clock. Midnight. The witching hour." She laughed breathlessly at this, only to face her window and have her laughter dry up quickly. There were many rumors of the dangers of the midnight hour, but till now none had fazed her. The Prescott family was never a superstitious one.  
She had not originally noticed the other presence in the room despite now the dank stench of blood that danced in the stale air. With gentle feline grace the other moved forward.  
"I am Kanoe Beledaine, Missus Prescott. I believe you know the matters of which I come…" the man grinned as the Venture nodded roboticly. "Good. Makes my job easier." Still drawing her attentions with the powers of his blood he stalked forward, a blade extracted, the man solemnly running his tongue down the edge of the blade. He made sure the blood soaked his blade, never breaking eye contact with his victim. Beledaine stepped forward again, smiling gently. "This won't hurt a bit," He cooed, ignoring that which he was taught. Seconds before the tainted blade sliced completely thought the woman's awaiting throat he broke his gaze, grinning as her final scream rang pleasantly through the dead air.  
  
Author Note:  
  
That's it! The end! Oh, by the way, this is going to (hopefully) be longer. I have a couple of other chapters done, but three is way long enough. Thanks for reading and PLEASE comment! I need to know if this is good enough to submit to White Wolf… ah… that would be a dream come true! Submitting a wanna be novel to a big company! Eee! Okay, I'm going to go commit myself into Delaware's finest mental institution. Bye!  
  
Little Bunny Foo Foo  
The keeper of the Malkavians  
  



End file.
